


Me and Cinderella Put it all Together

by random_flores



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:01:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/pseuds/random_flores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her agent told her to go out and celebrate. Take the night off. Enjoy Los Angeles. Every fucking cliché thing an agent will say, except maybe offer to do it with her. Instead, she lowers herself on a pristine leather bar stool of a hotel bar alone. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me and Cinderella Put it all Together

___

The hotel bar in the Century Plaza Hotel has two entrances; one that opens to the driveway where hotel guests wait for the valet to pull up the ridiculously expensive cars that Los Angeles people seem to love so much, and the darker, narrower entrance that opens directly from the lobby, exclusively for hotel patrons. 

As she moves her way through it, she finds herself smirking at the unintentional seediness of it. 

This isn’t a tourist hotel. CAA, the city’s biggest talent agency, sparkles pretentiously across the street and just down the block is the expansive Fox Lot, anointed by the tall, imposing building where, she’s been told more than once, they filmed the movie _Die Hard_. 

It means that the type of people who meet for drinks in this bar aren’t looking to get drunk, or waste away what’s left of their twenties, or even hook up with a random stranger. They’re looking to make deals, cement them anyway they can. 

Sometimes, a dark seedy corridor leads to a casting couch in a hotel room. 

It’s kinda sad that Santana doesn’t even see it as scandalous anymore. The industry is what it is, and when beautiful girls with talent are a dime a dozen, you do what you have to do. 

Pride doesn’t have very far to fall when there are ten more girls, just like you, ready to take your place while you sit there and squawk about your morals. 

She did what she had to do and honestly, she only had to do it once. The rest of her success? Pure fucking talent.

That, her ambition, and the bitchiness that made even the most pig-headed asshole executive’s balls shrink in their pants has gotten her to where she is now – with a seven figure development deal that’s all but signed, cementing her as a true Hollywood player. 

Her agent told her to go out and celebrate. Take the night off. Enjoy Los Angeles. Every fucking cliché thing an agent will say, except maybe offer to do it with her. 

She could call someone. Her last show may have been in New York, but Santana still has connections in LA. Acquaintances. Old Flames. A one night stand or two. 

Instead, she lowers herself on a pristine leather bar stool of a hotel bar alone. 

Because what she doesn’t have is an actual fucking friend. 

It’s a Wednesday night, but the tail end of Happy Hour. Whatever groups that met up for drinks to discuss pitches or writers or actors are wrapping up, and so it’s only Santana and a typical blonde bombshell seated at the bar. 

She’s actually gorgeous, and Santana is a lesbian, so she lets herself look, gaze lingering long enough to take in the too-perfect posture, the sinfully taut body shown off by the just-tight-enough cocktail dress that inches up to just below indecent. 

In between perfectly manicured nails is a cocktail, and when the woman sips, it’s with careful, delicate movements, the better not to disrupt the tramp red lipstick that shines even under the moody dark lightning of the bar. 

She’s putting on a show, and it’s one that Santana’s seen a hundred times before. A beautiful girl hoping to get noticed in a city where everyone looks just like her. 

It reeks of desperation, and any other day, Santana might have just snorted at the pathetic nature of it all. 

Tonight, she finds her gaze lingering, and it brings with it a sudden wave of sadness – a weird sense of commiseration, because it’s just her and this beautiful woman in a hotel bar in Century City on a Wednesday night, and no one else. 

The cocktail glass lowers as if the other woman has sensed her staring, and before Santana can avert her glance, the beautiful head turns and Santana finds herself looking into a pair of the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. 

“What can I get you?” 

She’s not aware she’s actually breathless until the bartender distracts her. Uncharacteristically grateful, Santana breaks the stare and looks up on the woman leaning on the other side of the bar. She’s a typical brunette beauty with a too tight vest that pushes up the ample man-made cleavage, who smiles with the same courteous but vacant smile that every bartender has in a place like this. 

Santana makes a show of perusing the cocktail specials of the night before she gives up and drops the tiny menu back on the wooden counter. “Please tell me you have something on tap besides Budweiser.” 

That, at least, prompts a genuine smile. “What are you in the mood for?” 

“Just give me something dark, nearly frozen and bitter.” 

“My kind of girl,” the woman chuckles, and a moment later, the bartender is setting down a chilled glass filled with frothy lager. “Enjoy, sweetie,” she says, and winks, before Santana is left on her own again. 

It’s fucking pathetic that that’s as much conversation that Santana expects for the night. 

She fingers the glass full of beer, feeling the condensation against her fingertips as she glances at her phone and considers calling Quinn - but it’s past midnight in New York and Quinn has babies now. Babies and a life and a love that she chose over any career she may have had. 

It means no calls past 9PM, and it means that Santana’s best friend might as well be a figment of her own imagination. 

She takes a gulp of the beer. It’s bitter and tangy and exactly what she wanted. 

“If you like beer, you should try the Smith House.” 

Santana lowers the glass and looks over. The blue-eyed beauty with the skin-tight dress and the cocktail glass just smiles at her, friendly and sweet in a disarming kind of way. “It’s just down the street,” she continues, pointing the way. “On Santa Monica. 120 beers on tap and they’re from like, all over.” 

Santana glances down at her beer and then at the bartender. The brunette has heard enough to offer a dirty look at the other woman, and it’s enough to make Santana smirk. “Um,” she begins, chuckling slightly. “I’m not sure this place is going to take kindly to you directing people to another drinking establishment.” 

The woman just shrugs uncaringly. “If you like beer, you should go,” she answers matter-of-factly. “I didn’t say it had to be tonight. The food’s good too.” 

It’s the kind of logic that Santana appreciates. “Thanks,” she says finally, and then glances curiously at the fruity looking cocktail the other woman is currently sipping. “Are you a beer drinker?” 

“Not really.” 

Santana finds herself drawn back to her eyes. They’re a brilliant, beautiful kind of blue, but more disconcerting is the way the other woman is using them to just stare at her. 

Eye contact has never really been Santana’s thing. Not when she was in Lima, Ohio, not when she escaped to New York. 

Eye contact is what she does when she wants to put the fear of God in someone, or seduce the pants on them. It has a purpose. 

This woman is just looking at her with no actual purpose at all, and it freaks her the hell out. 

There’s a familiar kind of heat that crawls up the back of her neck and flushes her cheeks, and Santana finds breaking the gaze in something that feels almost like panic, making the motion to take a swig of bitter beer that is suddenly tasteless. 

“So what are you having?” she asks, before she can quite help herself. 

“Um…” The blonde bombshell squints as she drags a fingernail across the side of a menu. “A Cherry Wheeler?” she reads, and then shrugs in a sheepish sort of way. “I just kinda pointed to something on the specials.”

The careless way she says it is amusing in a way Santana hasn’t been amused in a while. “So, is it good?” 

Those blue eyes catch hers again, and then an impish smile broadens on thin red lips. “Yeah.” 

The expression pulls a smirk out of Santana, and she finds herself waving a finger in the bartender’s direction. 

The smile that was on the bartender’s face a minute ago seems just a bit more strained. “What can I do for you, sweetie?” 

“Can I get one more Cherry Wheeler for…” Santana glances at the other woman, arching a questioning brow. 

“Brittany,” the woman says haltingly, as if only just catching on to what’s happened. 

“For Brittany. On my tab.” 

It’s worth it just for the look on the bartender’s face. She looks as if she’s been asked to chew glass. When Santana smiles sweetly, she gets a muted smile in response and eeks out, “Coming right up.” 

“You shouldn’t have done that.” It’s a whisper, said right up against her ear. Santana feels the flutter of hot breath on her neck and the heady scent of the other woman, as Brittany settles down in the stool right beside her. 

Goosebumps have pebbled on Santana’s skin. She rubs her fingernails along her forearm, It’s far from unpleasant. “Why not?” she asks. 

“It takes her like, twenty minutes,” Brittany explains, with dancing eyes. “She has to puree the strawberries and muddle it all together, and then add in egg whites and whip it – it looks complicated. And I don’t think she likes me.” 

Sure enough, Santana watches as the bartender mashes strawberries in a glass with frustrated, jerky movements. 

“Why wouldn’t she like you?” 

Brittany doesn’t answer. Instead, her cheeks color and her eyes flicker back to her near empty cocktail. “Besides, I wasn’t going to stay much longer.” 

There’s a dip in Brittany’s tone as her fingers swirls over the tip of the glass. 

She lets Santana study her, and it’s not long before Santana puts together the picture that Brittany presents. 

Brittany with her perfume and perfect body and stiletto pumps and tramp red lipstick – too gorgeous for most of these men in their thousand dollar suits, and yet… available. 

This isn’t a bar where single girls show up to meet a random and hook up. Brittany’s here to meet someone. 

Santana’s pretty sure that beneath the skin tight dress is an expensive bra and panty set, probably translucent. 

The mental image is a striking, but sobering one. 

“How long have you been waiting for him?” she asks. 

Bright blue eyes dart up to meet hers, somehow startled that she’s brought up the truth so quickly. “Oh,” she breathes, and then laughs in a low voice, either because of nerves or embarrassment. “I dunno,” she rasps, shifting in her chair. “A while.” Shoulders come up in a soft shrug, and a modest, polite smile paints the pretty face. “I guess he got lost.” 

“He got lost,” Santana repeats. 

“It happens to me a lot.” 

It’s a flippant statement from a flippant girl, but at that moment, it feels like it came from god-damn Plato. “Happens to all of us a lot,” she admits, and takes another gulp of her beer, grimacing in gratitude at the bitter taste as it goes down. 

“So who are you waiting for?” 

“No one,” she answers shortly. She feels the gaze on her, can almost hear the gears grinding in Brittany’s head. 

“Oh.” 

Santana smiles grimly and because there’s no one else to hear it, she finally tells this perfect stranger, “I’m in town for the night, and I got some big news. I felt like celebrating.” 

“By yourself,” she hears. 

“Yeah,” she answers, eyes on her beer. “By myself.” 

It feels like a set up, and Santana may only be in her early thirties, but she feels fucking ancient as she waits for it, body tense as the other woman studies her, paints her as an easy target. 

And then it comes. “You know, you don’t have to be.” 

It’s fucking stupid that she’s halfway between disappointed and god-damn intrigued. 

Her head lifts, looks at a beautiful face and bright, gorgeous eyes who eye her expectantly. A tongue darts out and suddenly Santana’s focus is on those red, red lips, moistened by a pink tongue that she knows will taste of muddled strawberries and frothy meringue tinted alcohol. 

Santana has no idea why just the very idea makes her damn depressed. “Brittany,” she begins, and finally just settles for the truth. “I already bought you a drink, but I’m not sure I want to pay for anything else tonight.” 

And maybe she surprised her, because Brittany’s face just drops, like that was the last thing on earth she expected to hear. “That’s not what I-“ 

“You weren’t?” Santana interrupts flatly, in no mood for denial. “Come on.” Brittany gapes at her, and Santana’s brow lifts, daring the other woman to lie to her. “That’s not what you do?” 

Brittany deflates. “I do,” she admits, and something cold flushes down Santana’s back, because when did she become so fucking pathetic she could actually get singled out by a high class hooker in a bar? “But-“ 

“But what?” she asks, voice sharp. 

The woman has the audacity to look wounded. “That’s not what I meant,” she answers feebly. 

The bartender places the drink in front of her. Liquid sloshes over the top and onto Brittany’s fingertips, and immediately, they go in Brittany’s mouth. Santana watches her suck the wetness away. 

She could shut her down now. Down her beer and leave the bar – let this working girl make her money on some other hapless lonely drunk on a business trip to Los Angeles. Some middle-aged guy with a balding hair line and pooch for a stomach, who would take one look at this gorgeous, gorgeous girl and pay whatever it took to buy into the fantasy that someone like her would look twice at someone like him. 

It’s what she should do. 

But her gaze lingers on those fingers still pressed against that red, red mouth, and it’s her downfall, because then she looks up and finds herself staring once again into Brittany’s eyes. 

There’s no defensive anger, just hurt. The wet sheen of tears, as if Santana’s made her feel fucking ashamed for what she is. “I didn’t always,” she mumbles softly. 

Santana suddenly believes her. She sees this bright, blue-eyed beauty and suddenly pictures a gorgeous country girl who came to Los Angeles with dreams and not much else, who looks at everyone the way she looked at Santana, with that same friendly sweetness that makes it easy to ask how much and for how long. 

Santana wonders how long it was before Brittany realized she had an answer to those questions. 

God… dammit. 

She shoves a tiny cocktail napkin over, pushing it into Brittany’s slender fingers, holding the other woman in place as she tries to move off the stool. 

“Let’s start over,” she says, apology unspoken as she twists on her stool and offers her hand. “My name is Santana.” 

And God, this woman shouldn’t be showing this much fucking gratitude. It’s unnerving, the way Brittany’s eyes flicker from her outstretched hand to her face and back again. “Brittany Pierce,” she replies unsteadily, before a firm, smooth hand grips Santana’s and squeezes tightly. 

Santana sinks back in her stool, watches as Brittany does the same, rearranging herself with an effortless grace that has Santana once again glancing at long, toned legs. 

When she finally wills herself to look back up, she notices a knowing smirk on Brittany Pierce’s face, a clear giveaway that she’s been caught leering. 

Hell will freeze over before she’ll admit it. With a forced casualness, she takes another gulp of beer before she asks conversationally, “Brittany Pierce, why did you come to Los Angeles?” 

“I wanted to dance,” she answers, and Santana finds her eyes floating back to those long legs. 

“Are you good?” 

“I used to be amazing,” Brittany answers, and it’s oddly not cocky at all. “At least,” Brittany’s smile stalls. “Until I tore stuff in my knee.” 

It’s there, Brittany’s entire story in one quick, cruel sentence. “Ouch.” 

“Yeah,” Brittany agrees, but the smile doesn’t return. Instead, she fingers at her second cocktail, a flush stained on her cheeks that accompanies her flustered rambling. “I don’t have like… a degree or anything so… and I had all these hospital bills and no insurance…” 

“Brittany, I don’t care,” Santana snaps, and realizes suddenly, that it’s absolutely true. 

Brittany looks just as skeptical. “Women usually care,” she answers. 

“Then they’re hypocrites.” Brittany just stares at her in that frank, honest way that is starting to feel utterly familiar. Santana licks the froth off her lips, and leans forward. “In this town, everyone has a price,” she states, because it’s a fucking fact. “Everyone.” 

She says more than she means to, really, and she wonders what it is about Brittany Pierce that makes her really not give a shit. She waits as Brittany studies her, comes to the conclusion she knows she’s going to get to. 

“You sound like you already know what yours is,” Brittany says, because she’s too polite to call her what Santana’s inferred she was. 

Santana finishes her beer in one final gulp. She feels the liquid burn into her stomach, an aftertaste of liquor come up from her throat. “I do,” she states. “I found out what it was a long time ago.” 

She doesn’t look at Brittany, but it doesn’t mean she isn’t aware of her. 

Santana plucks an olive from the bartender’s station in front of her, and sucks it into her mouth. The bartender catches her eye and Santana nods. 

“Oh,” she hears. “Was it worth it?” 

It’s an honest question, and one Santana isn’t sure how to answer. She considers it, and finally just shrugs. Fuck it. “It shaved about ten years off my career and broke through my glass ceiling, so yeah, I’d say it was.” 

Maybe she should be ashamed of it, but in the face of this woman, she decides she’s not. It’s not that Santana believes in fate, but she’s sitting next to a high class escort with the most beautiful eyes she’s ever seen and somehow, what she feels isn’t any sort of distrust. 

And that has to mean something. Because Santana broke through her glass ceiling and she’s getting exactly what she wanted, exactly what she sold herself for. 

And she’s alone on a bar stool and only this woman is looking at her like it means fucking anything. 

“So what are you celebrating?” Brittany asks. The laughter is back in her voice, and it’s bright and beautiful and completely unexpected. 

Maybe this is Brittany’s version of starting over. 

The bartender presents another glass of beer and places it down in front of her. Santana thanks her with a smile, and turns again back to Brittany. “By this time tomorrow, I will have inked my first over all development deal with Fox Studios. Total creative control to develop new series for the next four years.” 

“Wow,” Brittany says, with an appropriate amount of enthusiasm. A bright smile flashes across her face, and for some reason, it embarrasses her. “That’s amazing,” she breathes, and looks fucking proud of her, of all things. 

Santana blinks once, twice, and then finds herself laughing helplessly, feeling the heat sear on her cheeks as she shakes her head and toasts her beer at her. 

“Thank you.” 

“Congratulations,” Brittany answers, watching her with something that looks almost like amusement in those bright blue eyes. “That’s like… a big deal.” 

It’s the fucking understatement of the century, but Santana kind of appreciates it, the way Brittany just takes it in. 

“Yeah,” she admits. “Yeah it is.” 

It’s a fucking career high. A million people would kill to be where she is, and Santana has fucking made it. 

“You shouldn’t be here alone.” 

It’s Brittany, obviously, and her tone has changed. That scampy smile is back, and those damn blue eyes dance, and it shouldn’t be as fucking intoxicating as it is. 

“I shouldn’t?” 

Brittany smiles, shaking her head. “No,” she states firmly. Long fingers shift down the bar, until Santana’s watching those pale digits slink into hers. “I think you should drink that beer, and then maybe come dance with me.” 

_Is that what you’re calling it?_ , she wants to ask. It’s on the tip of her tongue. A bitter, acerbic reply that is what she should say. 

And then those bright blue eyes will just stare at her, grow muted and dark, and it will be enough for Brittany Pierce to close down, pull away from her and leave her here alone. 

So it may be stupid, but Brittany’s smiling, and Santana suddenly feels like dancing. “Yeah?” she asks, and she finds herself grinning. “You want to dance with me, Britt?” 

Brittany’s smile softens. “You should smile more,” she says. “You’re beautiful.” Before Santana can quite react, she adds, “Do you want to dance with me?” 

Fingers smooth against hers, and that smile is fucking infectious. “Yeah,” she admits honestly. “I do.” 

As if that smile couldn’t get any bigger.

“Then let’s go.” 

\--

She’s not sure what she’s expecting. 

Santana’s done a lot of seedy things in her life, but she’s never actually picked up a hooker, and walking out of the bar hand in hand with Brittany Pierce brings with it a kind of careless excited exhilaration, because there has never been a day when Santana didn’t actually give a fuck, and actually went with the flow. 

She has no idea why she’s doing it now, but she figures it definitely has something to do with the way she gulped down that second beer and how she reacts to the sound of Brittany’s laughter as she pulls her into the waiting taxi, with such force Santana falls against her. 

“Where are we going?” she asks, breathless as Brittany curls her arm around her, steadying her and keeping her close. 

With dancing eyes, Brittany just smiles and tells the cab driver to take them to West Hollywood. 

\--

Maybe there are certain expectations, because even though Santana tells herself she doesn’t give a fuck what they actually do, she’s surprised when she finds herself being lead into a thronging dance floor that’s filled the brim with sweaty, dancing gay boys and the occasional fag hag. 

Strobe lights pulse and make her dizzy, and so she keeps her focus on Brittany, who glances back at her every half second as she laces their fingers tighter together and burrows deeper into the mob. 

It’s only when they’ve reached the most insane, crowded part of the dance floor that Brittany turns suddenly. 

The force with which she’s pulled throws her completely off balance, and already overwhelmed, Santana can only manage a breathless laugh when she finds herself pressed flush against the taller woman. 

Suddenly she’s not laughing anymore. 

In this insane, chaotic atmosphere, every sense feels suddenly heightened. Brittany’s hands are heavy and heated – they nearly burn as they deliberately press against her hips, holding her in place. Brittany’s breath against her cheek makes her shiver, and those damn blue eyes burrow into her with such intensity it’s hypnotizing. 

A smooth forehead tips down against hers, and Santana’s eyelids flutter as Brittany’s head tilts and she whispers against her ear, “Dance with me.” 

In that moment, Santana has a moment of doubt. 

She wonders what would have happened if she had ignored the beautiful blonde woman at the end of the bar, and ended up chatting up the bartender instead. 

Would she still be there, on her fourth beer, tipsy enough to comment appreciatively on the woman’s cleavage and her knowledge of beer? Would there have been light flirting and an occasional suit scumbag who offers to buy her a drink that gives them a reason to commiserate? Wink at each other and smile and roll their eyes? 

She would have gone back through the seedy corridor and up to her room, and maybe she would have been alone. Maybe not. 

Maybe, that day that seems so fucking long ago, she would have held onto her morals and said no to that fucktard who insinuated he’d get her places if she blew him and then actually kept his word. 

But then would she be here?

Would Brittany be smiling at her like she knows every part of her even though she’d known her for maybe thirty minutes max? 

Would Santana have ever grown into the woman who met a hooker and knew enough not to give a fuck? 

Some part of her wishes she hadn’t, because Brittany’s begun to move, rocking her hips against her, manipulating her with a strong grip that makes it impossible to do anything but follow her lead.

And it’s fucking dangerous, because Brittany’s demanding control, and heady with alcohol and the overwhelming buzz of desire, Santana gives it up willingly. She lets her fingers smooth up toned biceps and lock around that slender neck, and when Brittany laughs huskily in her ear, it causes a shudder that she knows Brittany can feel against every inch of her body. 

The beat is hard… fast. It thumps so loudly and so deeply that it seeps into her very bones, like some sort of demonic chant. It strips everything away but the music, the girl, and the blissful surrender of intimate touch. The grind of her hips, the press of firm, small breasts as they rub against hers, the sweat she tastes as her head falls against Brittany’s shoulder, lips touching bare skin. It’s all so palatable and real, and it makes her want to laugh, because Santana’s made her living creating worlds that don’t exist, and yet she’s coming alive in this reality in a way she could have never imagined. 

The music plays on, and Santana begins to feel damp. She feels it everywhere – between her legs, underneath her breasts, at the nape of her neck. The fabric of her dress that first felt freeing begins to feel hot and rough, and when her body twists against Brittany and she feels those possessive hands smoothing under the fabric of her skirt to palm her upper thigh, she responds with a grateful hiss. 

She hears an appreciative moan, feels the way Brittany hums against her neck. What Brittany says, Santana can barely make out over the din of the club. 

“I’m so glad that guy got lost.” 

Her ass grinds against Brittany’s pelvis, an automatic impulse. She reaches up behind her and catches hold of the sweaty nape of Brittany’s neck. Without permission Santana arches up and pulls. 

Brittany kisses her with a hungry, open mouth. A low, rumbling moan vibrates into Santana’s lips and even in this, Santana can’t dominate. Brittany’s hands are flat against her, dragging up until they’re pressed hard against her stomach, keeping Santana trapped and moving against the rhythm of her body and the pressure of her tongue. 

The roar of the crowd surrounds them, bringing with it a collective high that infects Santana, as her fingers tangle in blonde locks and her tongue drags against Brittany’s teeth. Her kiss is sloppy, demanding, and it’s good. 

It’s so fucking good. 

Brittany’s mouth is fucking intoxicating, and it’s so fucking good Santana can’t think about anything else, until Brittany’s fingers skate across her breasts, nail scraping against her nipple. Santana’s knees buckle. 

Brittany seems to sense it. Her grip tightens before Santana can really fall, and suddenly Santana’s been twisted and pushed backward through the glistening moving bodies. There’s no finesse as she’s slammed up against a black wooden wall that vibrates with the speaker mounted against it and damn near makes her go deaf. 

It’s hard to give even the slightest fuck when Brittany’s pressed a knee in between her thighs, grinding into her as she buries her face into Santana’s neck, sucking and licking at her collarbone. 

The wall pulses with sound, creating a beat that Santana’s heart races to follow. She struggles to breathe – every inhalation brings with it a sigh or a moan or a whimper that only makes Brittany press harder, with so much force it hurts. 

The pain is what grounds her. It opens her eyes, even as her legs tremble and her forearm pins against Brittany’s neck, holding the other woman to her as she rides against her thigh, feeling the dig of fabric drag against her crotch. 

They’re rutting against a dirty wall of a club, and it’s not enough. 

Brittany’s lips are wet – her kisses are rough and uncontrolled, licking and biting against the column of her throat, not giving a rat fuck if she brands her. 

She’s rolling her hips into Santana, causing friction that’s so… so… good, and so not enough. 

“Brittany-“ 

“You’re so hot,” Brittany breathes, and fingers grab hold of Santana’s thighs, pulling up until Santana’s legs fall open and Brittany’s wrapping them around her waist, and thrusting up. 

God DAMN. Santana’s so close to coming. She can feel it coil up inside her, even as she bites down on her lower lip and scratches at Brittany for leverage. 

And fuck god-dammit, she’s NOT coming against the wall of a dirty ass gay boy club by dry humping. It doesn’t matter how fucking hot the woman humping her is. 

With a frustrated grunt, she heaves in a heavy breath and latches onto Brittany’s ear, raking across her lobe with her teeth before she snaps, “Take me home.” 

The sound around them is deafening, and for a minute, Santana isn’t sure Brittany’s heard her, because Brittany’s only response is to slant her mouth against hers and suck hard on her tongue. 

A moment later, Brittany’s growling against her lips and jerking back. “Come on.” 

\--

Santana’s lived her life on expectations. 

It’s one of her big strengths – to know what’s expected of her and to act accordingly. It’s what kept her closeted in Lima, slutty and bitchy enough to thrive on the Cheerios and make it out of Lima and all the way to New York. 

If she wanted to give herself expectations when it comes to this, if she had any capacity to give any sort of fuck, Santana would expect to be led through a hotel lobby. 

She’d expect to be pressed up against the door to her hotel room, Brittany’s roaming hands sneaking up under her dress as she battled for sense enough to pull out the plastic key. 

If she wanted to really be honest with herself, she’d bring herself to ask about prices – what this night was costing her. 

But she doesn’t ask, and it’s because she doesn’t want to. Not when Brittany’s laughing and whispering the most sensual things in her ear in the sweetest tone she’s ever heard. Not when Brittany’s threading fingers through her own and laughing like Santana’s her new best friend. 

She doesn’t want to know if Brittany’s really this good at her job – if she makes a habit of taking every trick she picks up to a gay bar only to almost fuck them against a wall. If she gets them so worked up they’re begging to be fucked. 

Santana’s jaded enough to spot a hooker when she sees one, and stupid enough to want to be a fucking exception. 

She wants to ask what she’s going to have to pay, because Brittany doesn’t come for free. 

Nothing comes for free.

But Santana really has no idea if she’s just solicited a hooker or picked up a one night stand, or something else, because this doesn’t feel like either. 

But she doesn’t ask, and when Brittany pulls them out of the taxi cab and drags them up an unfamiliar sidewalk, Santana decides that right now she really, truly, does not give a fuck. 

At least not about the money. 

“Where are we?” she asks, but Brittany just gives her that same disarming smile before digging into her clutch for a set of keys that she uses to unlock the second apartment on the second floor. 

The liquor has long since worn off, and the only kind of drunk Santana is the punch drunk kind. But still, she has a hard time actually processing what she sees as she hovers in the doorway, watching as Brittany kicks off her stilettos and moves into a tiny living room filled with IKEA furniture, with mud colored carpet. In the midst of it, meowing at them arrogantly is the biggest fucking cat she’s ever seen. 

Santana isn’t stupid, and yet it isn’t until now that it dawns on her that Brittany’s taken her literally and actually taken her HOME. 

It’s not exactly a lightbulb moment, but damn if it’s not confusing as hell. Twenty minutes ago, this woman was this close to fingering her against a wall, and now Brittany’s got that big ass cat in her arms, pressing hello kisses to its furry ear, and speaking in affectionate gibberish. 

It’d be fucking hilarious if Santana wasn’t so fucking confused. 

“This is Lord Tubbington,” Brittany says, and the cat squirms, meowing pathetically until Brittany lowers the cat to the ground and rubs lightly at the spot right above his tail. 

Santana stares at a framed photo on the desk beside the couch. A pre-teen version of the woman in front of her smiles at her. She’s missing her two front teeth. 

“So I know what you’re thinking.” 

Santana jumps, like she’s been caught trying to steal something. When she registers Brittany’s impish, knowing expression, she can’t help but laugh breathlessly. “What am I thinking?” she asks, because she honestly doesn’t know. 

The smirk widens into a grin that looks almost feral. “You’re thinking that I’m rubbing the wrong pussy.” 

It’s so NOT what she was thinking, but it is what she’s thinking NOW. 

\--

It’s slower, this time. 

Whatever fevered impulses the thumping music of the club brought on fade in favor of a hushed sort of wonder. Santana feels Brittany’s smile as her lips press into hers, and it makes her smile back, a sudden unweighted happiness floating through her as she lets Brittany walk her backwards into her bedroom. 

They exchange unhurried kisses, just lips against lips that get progressively deeper the closer they get to Brittany’s modest full size bed. 

By the time the back of her legs presses against the corner edge of Brittany’s bed, her tongue is tangled against Brittany’s, and her shirt is half open, Brittany’s hands cupping her breasts through her bra. 

“Wow,” she says, breaking the kiss to tilt her head and admire Santana’s cleavage, cupping the weight of them in her palms. “Are they real?” she breathes, like this is some sort of amazing surprise. 

Santana doesn’t know if she’s even capable of feeling insulted at the moment. “No,” she admits, but she shrugs off her shirt anyway, reaching behind herself to snap away the clasp of her bra. 

Brittany’s brow furrows, but any displeasure she may have gotten from the news fades when the straps fall from Santana’s shoulders, and she can thumb across a bare nipple. 

“They’re beautiful,” she says, so fucking sincere Santana isn’t sure if she can actually believe it. “Seriously,” Brittany insists, and then she’s lowering her head and sucking that nipple into her mouth, rolling her tongue around the hard nub and making Santana’s head fall back in pleasure. 

It’s how they land on the bed – Santana first, and Brittany right on top of her, sucking and kissing her left breast with an ardor that makes Santana writhe. Her hands tangle in Brittany’s hair and she arches her hips, offering her more, begging her to take it. 

Brittany responds by kissing a trail to the other peak, tonguing around her nipple as she palms Santana’s ass, molding her into her body and rocking into her. 

“So beautiful,” Santana hears, before her nipple is released, and Brittany crawls against her, until she’s kissing her mouth. It’s a hungry, desperate kiss Santana offers, full of whimpers and unspoken requests. 

And maybe Brittany understands it, because she pulls away just long enough to pull her dress over her head before she’s pressed back down onto Santana, shoving her skirt up until it’s at her waist. She cups Santana between her legs and sucks in a greedy, happy breath. 

“You’re soaked,” she tells her, because Brittany apparently likes to state the obvious. “I can feel you even through this.” At least she does something about it. She tugs with her fingers, lowering the fabric just enough to drag her finger through the wetness. 

“Fuck,” Santana grunts, and she’s never this fucking useless in bed. She’s not. 

But then again it’s never been Brittany Pierce sliding against her, rubbing teasingly against her clit and dipping experimentally inside her, tongue flicking out to dip between her lips at the exact same time. 

“Holy shit, Santana,” she says, and closes her eyes, like she wants to lose herself in that feeling. 

“Brittany,” she snaps, because her hips are snapping, nearly bucking with the need to be filled and it’s only made worse by the weight on top of her, the breathless kisses that Brittany presses against her gasping mouth as she lazily explores her pussy. “Brittany, please-“ 

Brittany cuts her off as she angles her mouth against hers, stealing her breath and swallowing the muted cry she emits the second Brittany sinks inside of her. 

\--

“Your cat is staring at me.” 

She’s boneless, and though the naked woman she’s just brought to orgasm is a virtual stranger, Santana finds herself lingering. 

Her fingers, three of them, twisted and curled inside a still trembling body, are trapped, clamped down so hard by strong muscles she’s actually lost feeling in them. 

She finds she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about the wetness that’s soaked her nose and chin, or that Brittany’s more than likely pulled out a clump of her weave. 

All she really cares about is lapping up the wetness of Brittany’s sex, giving the quivering woman underneath her time to recover and relax, and let go of her fingers. 

At least, until she glances up and notices that big, fat cat crouched on the edge of the bed, ears flat against its head and eyes boring right into her. 

“Oh.” Brittany’s voice is raspy, raw from shouting just moments before. Her chest, moving up and down with exertion, makes for a tantalizing sight. “It’s just he’s not really used to sharing the bed.” 

It’s a simple explanation. Said from any other person, it would have made complete sense. 

But it comes from Brittany, and Santana’s mind makes the connection and relays the information to her mouth before she has a chance to stop herself. “What, so I’m the first trick you brought home?” 

The way Brittany clenches against her fingers – the fucking LOOK on her face, answers any sort of question that Santana may have had about whether or not she should have taken her checkbook out. 

Brittany doesn’t bring tricks home. 

She doesn’t bring ANYONE home, because the damn cat isn’t used to it, and that means that somehow in the course of the evening, Santana’s become SOMEONE, and even though they barely know each other, she’s fucked and been fucked by Brittany in her bed, in her HOME. 

Because Santana wasn’t a trick. 

The emotions that flit across Brittany’s face read like a roadmap, clear and distinct. Shock at the insinuation, sudden hurt at the realization, and then actual anger at the understanding. 

“Brittany,” Santana breathes, and moves, pulling out without meaning to, and it just makes it worse, because Brittany still wasn’t ready and so she jerks with the pain of it. “Shit – I’m sorry-“ 

“It’s fine,” Brittany answers flatly, swinging her legs away from Santana. “But you don’t have to pay me.” 

“Brittany –“ 

Brittany’s already off the bed, grabbing hold of a robe that’s been flung over her dresser and covering herself with it. 

“It’s okay.” She won’t look at her, and it makes Santana feel ten times stupider, sitting naked on Brittany’s bed with her fingers that are still coated in Brittany’s wetness and her taste still pungent on her lips. “You should go, though.” 

But fuck… what was she supposed to think? 

What was she supposed to think? She presented herself like a fucking turkey on Thanksgiving for a high class escort, and she finds the ONE hooker in Los Angeles who wouldn’t take advantage of that? 

“Brittany, I’m sorry,” she says, even though she knows it won’t make a damn bit of difference. 

“Ok,” Brittany says, but she reaches down and plucks Santana’s skirt off the carpet to toss it on the bed. 

She doesn’t look at her. 

Usually, Santana’s good with that. Eye contact sucks, and yet it suddenly kills her that Brittany won’t just LOOK her. 

She scrambles off the bed, headed toward the other woman, ready and willing to do something – anything to make that damn kicked puppy look go away. “Brittany-“ 

Brittany whirls on her, and those bright blue eyes flash with so much anger and hurt, the words close up in Santana’s throat. “Was that stuff you said earlier just complete crap?” she snaps. “About how you didn’t care? It didn’t matter?” 

“No,” she admits, but it’s not good enough. Nothing’s good enough when she’s just made the woman who wanted to celebrate her good fortune and gave her the best orgasm she’s had in years feel cheap and used. 

Her shoulders fall and she slumps helplessly back into the bed, letting Brittany study her in furious, hurt silence. 

“You should go,” Brittany says again. 

Santana’s heart beat thumps painfully against her chest, and suddenly she’s blinking back tears, which infuriates her, because what the fuck. Seriously. She should have just flirted with the fucking bartender and rented porn in her hotel room. 

With shaking hands, she gets up off the bed and grabs hold of a post it she finds scattered on Brittany’s desk. 

“What are you doing?” 

She finds a pen, and she scribbles her number on it, and then her email for good measure. Without a word, she turns and offers it to Brittany. 

Brittany only stares at her. 

“Take it,” she pleads. 

“I don’t want anything from you,” Brittany hisses. 

“Maybe not now,” she admits, “But I’m signing a fucking development deal and that means I’m going to be opening an office and making pilots and that means I’m going to have a shit load of jobs opening up, so… take it,” she snaps, and tries to crumple the paper in Brittany’s palm, curling her fingers around it. 

Brittany shakes it off; lets it drop between them. “I don’t need your help,” she snaps. “Just because you only did it once doesn’t make you better than me.” 

It actually makes her a helluva lot fucking worse. 

\--

When she signs the contract, actually inks her name on that dotted line, her agent literally fucking squeals, grabbing hold of her and hauling her into his side, kissing her cheek. 

“Fuck yeah, Lopez!” he crows, and then he’s on his feet, shaking the hands of the lawyers and the president of the studio, all charm and fake niceness and everything she’s learned to expect and loathe about the industry. 

It’s the culmination of her career.

Santana can barely manage a smile. 

\--

She’s walking through the lobby, heading for the waiting sedan that’s going to take her to the airport, when she notices the dark, narrow entrance that leads to the hotel bar. 

There’s only a moment of hesitation before she’s turning on her heel and rolling her carryon behind her, into the hallway and towards the bar. 

It’s the beginning of Happy Hour, and there’s the same old power suits and men in expensive cardigans, drinking their straight shots of bourbons and whiskey, exchanging business cards and mumbling all about the business. 

There’s also a beautiful blonde there, who sits at a table with a handsome, old guy in a suit, who leans in with a too familiar grin on his face – the face of an asshole who knows he’s getting a guaranteed lay. 

Santana’s fingers tighten about her carryon, but she doesn’t stop, not until she’s caught Brittany’s attention, not until she’s just a foot away from her. 

The idiot keeps talking, and it’s not until Santana drops her carryon and sits down beside Brittany that the voice dies in his throat, and he blinks, unsure of the sudden shift. 

Santana ignores him completely. Her focus remains on those beautiful blue eyes that keep her heart in her throat, her voice raw and emotions unstable. 

“I’m not trying to save you from this,” she begins, and it’s embarrassing that her voice cracks. “You don’t need to be saved. But you should know that you’re better than me. And you’re better than this. Maybe you like the sex, and that’s fine. That’s great. But don’t ever let anyone think they can buy you, Brittany, because the way you made me feel? It’s priceless. And maybe I won’t ever get to make you feel the same way, but you deserve to find someone that will.” 

She doesn’t give her a chance to speak. Santana simply leans forward and presses her lips chastely against Brittany’s, as sweet and as tender as she’s ever kissed anyone. 

It breaks her. 

With shaky knees, Santana gets off the seat and grabs hold of her clutch, and gives Brittany one more smile, before she walks away. 

\--

She’s twenty minutes from the airport and traffic is shit on the 405. 

Her cell phone rings with an unlisted number. 

Santana’s already bitched out her driver for commenting on her tears, so he just keeps driving as the phone keeps ringing. 

Santana’s fucking crying over a one night stand and she’s not answering the fucking phone. She lets it go to voicemail. 

The phone buzzes again. 

Then again. 

Finally, her driver loses his patience and snaps, “Do you want me to get that?!” 

Santana snaps at him to mind his own fucking business, but grabs the phone. “What?” 

“Okay, so I’m still mad at you?” a familiar voice sulks, “But you are still so hot.” 

It takes a moment for the voice to register, but when it does, Santana’s heart literally seizes, cramps up in her chest and makes her damn near keel over. 

“Brittany,” she breathes. 

“It really sucks how you can be such an asshole and still so fucking perfect, you know?” The frustration is there, it’s so tangible in Brittany’s voice, but that’s not the point. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” 

The point is that it’s Brittany’s voice, speaking to her. “You kept my number.” 

“I tried to wad it up and throw it away,” Brittany admits, “But my cat kept pulling it out of the trash and batting it around. He thought I had made him a toy.” 

She laughs, and it comes off so unnerving that the driver nearly swerves into the other lane. “I love that damn cat.” 

“Santana,” Brittany begins, and hesitates, before continuing, “I don’t need you to save me. I don’t need you to give me a job. And if I fuck you, then you better not give me money for it because I will shove it up your ass – and not in the way you like it, either.” 

Santana chokes on her own breath, and it takes a moment of hacking before she can wave off the driver’s concerned look and recover enough to speak. 

“Britt-“ 

“But the way you said I made you feel?” Brittany continues. “You make me feel the same way. So … that’s it. That’s why I’m calling you. And now I don’t know what to do.” 

Santana can only smile. “Fuck me, Brittany, I don’t know what to do either.” 

She’s in a sedan on the way to the airport, and she’s just signed the deal of her life, and the only thing she appears to give a shit about is the fact that Brittany Pierce has a big ass fat cat that she wants to kiss. 

“Shit, Santana, you’re as clueless as I am, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, Brittany,” she admits. “I really am.” 

She’s fucking clueless and scared as hell, because the only time she’s ever come close to feeling like this is when she’s written it in a script, and even then, none of it has ever felt this terrifying. 

This _real_. 

Slumping against the seat, Santana is suddenly winded. “I just feel so lost.” 

Brittany chuckles, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. “It’s okay,” she reassures her. “I get lost a lot too.”


End file.
